The Battle for the Withering Roses
by Boom-Rhapsody
Summary: In the midst of the dark, we are told to seek the light. When no candle will burn, no ray of sun will shine, then there it falls upon the seeker to create the light, there the follower must play guide to the lost and the stumbling...


_This story is set during the Civil War. It is AU, obviously, and there are no mutaions, sry if that's a bad tihng.. I will be bringing in X-Men as the story progresses. pairings as follows: Remy/Rogue(Anne), OCOC(don't let that turn you away from the story)Jean/Scott, Kitty/Lance, and others, if I think them up. Please review if you read this chapter. I want to know if this is worth continuing. thank-you---Boom-Rhapsody

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The Battle for the Withering Roses

**Part I: In Darker Times, We Were Told to Seek the Light**

**The Battle For the Withering Roses**

**Part I: In Darker Times, We Were Told to Seek the Light**

Chapter One: War is _Hell_, Truly

The wind howled and the rain screamed as it shot down to earth, carried by the gale and hitting the house with a fury only the dead could imagine. The sky was dark as night and thick with heavy clouds. All work was abandoned in hopes of seeking shelter. Windows were closed, where once they were open to let in the sweet southern air of summer. But now, the air was bitter and cold; soaked in rain and dashed hopes of getting hard work done for the day.

Delicate fingertips traced a raindrop down the glass of a bedroom window. Sitting at her desk, she watched the world outside grow gray and dead, still and stone silent, save for the crying of the weather. Looking at her desk, she saw the unfinished letter, the quill having dripped ink onto the paper, now too dry to correct. She sighed, rising from her seat and walking over to the door. Opening it, she walked into the silent hallway, pausing to let the roll of thunder pass around her before continuing.

The hallway's décor was that of history, families upon generations, fights upon battles, battles upon wars. It all had its place. Portraits of people who had walked down the same hall, their weapons hanging beside them, and their names in gold beneath their pictures all lined the walls. Cutlasses and rifles and small pistols were angled between them all. A letter was even hanging beside the picture of an old man in an army uniform, his last testimony to his thoughts of war. That painting was fresh, barely two years old. The letter was written three months before word of the man's death reached his old home.

Oh how war was a cloud over the countryside, her life. Ever looming, threatening to bring the battlefield to the home front, and bring back fallen sons in pine coffins, or worse, only in a hat or jacket, an arm or a finger. She hated war, after it had taken her father and brother away to distant battlefields of death and crimson red. Her mother had died of grief, her love, unknown. She prayed he would return to her, a deserter or wounded. But nay, there was no word from him, though she cried herself with prayers of his return. No, God could not bring him back to her today or tomorrow.

Winter was approaching, she knew. Already the leaves were changing, though the days brought heat the likes of which she could barely stand. Was her dreaming or were the days dragging on, though the nights were coming quicker and quicker to steal the day away? She sighed again, her fingertips, smooth, with no calluses and slender, artist's hands, touching the railing of the stairs, gracing the fine wood. They ghosted over the grain, as did her feet as she went down the stairs, her dress gliding over the red carpet. She walked barefoot, and was not keen on dressing up as much as the other inhabitants of the house in which she dwelled. She looked more like a simple child compared to the finery her peers wore. But she preferred the feel of the soil beneath her feet tot hat of the soft carpet, or the hard, cold wood. She never wore rouge on her lips or cheeks, never placed powder on her nose. She preferred the natural look of her skin to the lie so many around her wore day in and day out.

She stood in the entrance hall, grand and elegant, yet too much wasted, in her eyes. All of the wood put into the furniture, the die put into the colors, the space, could have been better used than just for show. But she sighed within her soul. It was not her decision. At least the roof over her head was there for her use. She could be caught outside in the rain and wind.

Walking to the large family room, she stood by the door for a time and viewed the inhabitants of the room. Sitting by the fire with a pipe poised between his lips, a book in one hand and his chin in the other, was the owner of the large school, a mister Charles Xavier. The man had found her just shy of Jonesborough, lost in a daze, alone and without anything.

By a table sat the cook, Ororo, a slave by paper but free by the choice Xavier gave her. She was reading a long book, _Wuthering Heights_, the cover said. By another window, standing just a solemn, was the man she knew only as Logan. He was a mystery, a drifter, a man Xavier had hired to work the plantation and help teach her and her peers. He was quiet, rough around the edges. She found it hard to believe that sometimes, he possessed a heart, for he was often mean and cold towards his fellow boarders.

But other than that, there was no one in the room. The old man looked up at her and smiled a warm smile of tenderness and care, a father's smile. A smile she had not seen on her father for years, a smile he would never give her again. She smiled slightly and nodded to him, and Xavier returned to his book. Ororo looked up at her but said nothing, gave no sign, and then went back to her book. Logan and Scott gave her no sign they acknowledged her presence.

With a small, quiet sigh, she left her spot by the door, walking down the hallway to the other sitting room, and the library. No one occupied the afore mentioned rooms. Sighing she walked on, past a meeting room and then another, smaller library, a study, and found herself by the door that led outside, to the screened in porch. She opened the door, heard the hinges creaking, and stepped out onto the weathered wood. The cloths were drawn down in front f the screens, and tied to the floor. It was a pale yellow existence, once she did not experience alone.

Another person sat in the room, candles lit around her. Her red hair fell around her, wavy locks around her pale, contemplative face. Her green eyes focused on a lit candle, watching the wax trail down the side. Her beautiful blue dress was bunched around her, and though her posture was keen and perfect, her shoulders seemed slack, turned in, like a tired man who had just been relieved of a heavy load. She did not look up as she came around and sat in a chair beside her. They sat together in silence, sat as if neither were in company of the other.

And the rain outside poured down ever more.

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The roar of the cannon filled the air, the darting screams of bullets and cries of men echoed like haunting memories. Hell broke through the earth, painting the ground crimson with its victims' blood and gore. Men around him fell and called out and prayed aloud, shot and broken and dying and close to death. A fire inside spurred him on, forced him to get up, to pull the trigger of his gun again, if for only one last time. With the cry of his gun came the cry of a man…

Another hit target, another death to his list, another murder he'd committed. Had he reduced himself to such an animal, such a creature that lived to kill? No, that is what war had made him. He was an instrument of death, a way for rich Americans to settle their dispute. He fought for a cause he both misunderstood and was not for. He was not for death at all. But yet, he found himself amongst his dead and dying brothers, sons of the valley where he'd been born in, and borne away from in a wooden wagon.

Falling down behind a rock, he stole a glance around. What scared him most was not that there were so many dead, but that so many lacked beards on their faces, as he did. Would he be next? Would he be the next to lie face down in the mud and the grit and the crimson tide? He would not allow himself to die for something he thought of as nothing, as worthless, as a waste of breath and life.

A shot rang, a final cry, and it was over. He froze, wondering why silence had suddenly washed over the battleground, the Hell. Had Heaven descended from the eternal plains to relieve so many? No, it was not his day to wish for such luck. A roar of victory erupted, an eruption on his side of the battle. Shaking, he rose, and like the others, he smiled and threw his fist in the air. Looking to the east he saw a small wave of retreating blue, the "enemy" had succumbed.

Another victory for the "cause", but yet, in his eyes, it was an empty one.

With his fellow soldiers, he set about collecting the dead, the fallen. There were so many young faces, some younger than his own, so many that littered the ground. _Why was war like this?_ _Why did it cost so much?_ Too many focused on the cost that _money_ paid off, not the cost _life_ compensated. He lifted praise that he had not fallen today, and silently prayed not to fall tomorrow.

His heart stopped and he choked upon coming to a face he had grown up knowing, laughed with, and talked with. But now the face was bloodied and pale — dead. The gray jacket worn on the now empty body was bloodied and torn. A gun lay in a limp hand, fingers loose and slack against the metal. Blue eyes stared up at the graying sky, and he let a sob escape his choked throat, let it roll off of his tongue.

_Why was war like this?_ He asked himself again, grabbing the jacket in tired fists and hauling the body into his lap, desperately hoping that some strain of life remained. Holding a cold head in his hands he sought for life in faded eyes. But there was nothing to find, nothing left to recognize. With an anguished cry he threw his head back, screaming at the sky.

A drop of rain landed on his forehead, the tear of a concerned angel.

But no comfort would come to him. No assurance could calm him. This Hell had stolen his only friend from childhood away from him. Now, there was no remorse. Getting up, he walked off to the side, heading for the "home" his side had established for him, a good four mile walk. He walked alone, overcome in his thoughts. He thought of _her_, the Southern Belle he had left behind with a tear in his eye and pang in his heart.

Would he make it back to her?

He had to. Suddenly he began to run, run as fast as his wounded body could go. He reached the camp sight, and fell at his tent. After a spell he rose, sitting on the muddy earth, watching his fellows make their return. So few came "home", he noticed. Again, he was lucky. He was lucky to have walked so far, to have fought so long. He watched one of the men in his tent hobbled over to the tent. His foot was injured. He rose to let the man pass, and when doing so, he saw blood trickling down the side of the man's face. A head wound. The crimson soaked the gray cap the man wore, the same cap as his own. But like that, time picked up again, and he turned to walk into his tent.

But a sudden, familiar screech filled the air, then a loud crash that shook the earth. A cannonball. He dropped to the ground and covered his head, like so many others, and looked to see where it had landed. The cannonball sat in a smoking hole, just shy of the medical tent. He rose to his feet, spying a blue coat amongst the trees. Aiming the barrel, he stared down the line, and fired. A scream was his reply to the bullet he shot.

And the war raged on.

He ducked behind the wagon, found he was not alone, but ignored the presence of another as he loaded his gun. Twice bullets rocketed past his head, once by his thigh. With a battle cry so fierce he got from his hiding place and fired off five rounds, his shots ringing true four out of the five. He dropped down and loaded again, and then rose to repeat the process. Five out of five, he was a marksman, though he hated to admit his prowess at the art he was in.

But a shot in the shoulder had him gasping out in pain and sinking to the ground. He felt his world fading. His hand clutched at his wound, stopping the blood flow. It was warm, coated his hand like thick bath water. He cringed and bit his tongue, unwilling to cry out. He pulled out his hand gun, and loading it he began to fire off round after round. Even as his hopes began to fade with his world, he had a single thing in his mind. Not the battle, not the cause, not his fellows or his own self. No, it was something he held far higher than anything else.

He would get home to her. He would sit by the fire with her in his arms. He would not die in the mud, in the grit and the crimson tide.

He would make it back to her.

In the sounds of battle, her voice filled his head. He was comforted and empowered by the soft sound his dove always made, how her voice was soft, so soft he felt he could touch it in the air, feel it wrapping around his heart. Oh how his love was his fire. And so, it gave him strength. Strength for one last shot, strength for one final battle cry…

Strength for another

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"Ava Marie (1), do you miss him so?"

She looked up at the quiet question. The red head looked at her curiously, morosely so.

"Ah do," Ava replied solemnly, looking down at her hands; "Do you miss Jonathon, Jean?"

"Yes," Jean replied; "Though I try not to mope in front of the others," she said with a small smile; "Ava, tell me about your home. You sing about it all the time, yet I never catch your tales in spoken word."

Ava smiled; "Mah home Ah can only speak of in song, Jean," she replied; "Pains meh so t' think 'bout it, singin' lessens the ache…"

Jean nodded; "I have lived here my whole life," she said; "Just down the road from this place…"

"D'ya see your folks of'en?" Ava asked.

Jean shook her head; "No," she said; "They've passed on long ago. My sister is in Charleston. She designs dresses for the ladies of the courts across the oceans! Very fancy job she has. She's married, too, has two children…" he voice faded as she began to drift away from reality.

Ava watched Jean intently, studying her; "Ya wanna child, Jean?" she asked.

Jean shrugged; "The thought crosses my mind more and more these days," she said, sighing; "But, God gives us what we need, when we need it." She rose; "I'm going to go to the library. Care to join me?"

Ava shook her head, but got up as well; "Ah'm gonna head on to bed."

"So early? It's barely seven!" Jean said, but Ava shrugged.

"Ah bin tired as of late," Ava said over her shoulder, walking down the hallway, leaving Jean behind her.

She walked up the grand staircase, head bowed, watching as her toes peaked out form under her dress to carry her up the stairs. She reached the top and went down the hallway, once again passing through time to reach her room. She entered it and closed the door behind her. For a moment she rested against the door, sighing. She lit candles, the shadows gracing her walls as her fingers had graced the banister.

She left her door and went to her desk, lighting the table lantern. She sat down and sighed, staring at her unfinished letter…

_My Dearest Ira,_

_Not a day passes that I do not wonder upon your fate now. Sometimes I wonder why I write these letters to you, not knowing if you ever read them, or get the chance. Perhaps it is my way of assuring my own hopes, be they false or true. It does bring me peace, however, to write to you. I feel that you receive them. I only hope they lead you home. _

_I miss you something terrible. I'm sure you know that by now. Every time I find myself looking for the mountains, and I see none, it only reminds me that I am not home, and that I am not with you. Professor Xavier is a good man, my lessons are becoming easier. I still do not understand where my power comes from. The Professor feels it is in my emotions, but I cannot agree nor disagree._

_I do hope you'll be heading home soon. I wish to return home. God knows the farm is overgrown, but I could not cope with it on my own, sadly I am not that handy-capable! My raven, Chyden, with the white feathers around its beak, remember her? She was spotted earlier today. I will try to find her in the morning; I could use a companion here. It's not that the people I live with are horrible or rude, they are all very nice. But… they all have an upper class to them that I seem to be below, though you remember how civilized we are considered at home._

_Remember to head north when you can. I'm still in the same region, just shy of the Tennessean-Georgian border, Georgia. _

_All my love,_

_Ava_

Ava finished her name with a flourish, and then stared at her letter. She prayed that her Ihram Graham Connelly would receive this one, like she prayed over all the others. Her long fingers folded the letter and placed it in an envelope. She wrote the necessary information on the front, and then applied a stamp. Sighing she sat it on her nightstand, beside the candles the flickered with the breeze her movements fashioned. Undressing and slipping into a nightgown, she crawled into bed, and pulled a book from a shelf beside her bed. It was a book of poetry, but she pulled out a familiar picture she used as a marker.

The handsome face that smiled slightly, the gray eyes she knew to be gray like the cloudy sky in life, and the angular jaw and cheekbones… the fiery hair with brown highlights she had long ago counted in the midday sun… and the grey uniform, the rifle draped across his lap…

_Damn this Hell_, she thought bitterly, a tear falling to land on the picture.

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_A/n:_

(1) pronounced "Avuh Muh-ree"


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